Book 5: No One Will Believe You

Ingrid

When one of the strings on my lute snaps under my fingers that night, I finally have to admit how fucking angry I am.

Angry and fucking tired.

If I wanted to sit around waiting, I could have gone back home. Crossed my fingers and hoped somebody ever bothered to wonder if my mate had been murdered.

If I wanted to be ignored when I talk, I’d go have a conversation at any Goddessdamned ball or gala my family keeps dragging me to. With most of Solberg Castle. Hell, I’d go talk to Lady Evangeline just to hear her prattle on about nothing.

If I wanted to watch someone throw truth out the window to suit their preconceptions—

Well, I’d just go talk to Amval again, wouldn’t I?

I suck on the red bubble of blood as I storm to my desk for a spare string. Papers crush as I shove them aside.

Well, most of them crush. One is such thick cardstock that I earn myself a matching paper cut.

I jam another finger into my mouth